


I and Love and You

by theladyscribe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: un_love_you, F/M, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-24
Updated: 2009-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It should have been you," Dean says to the dark above their heads.<br/>"What?"<br/>"On the ceiling. It should have been you. Not him. Not Sam."</p><p>Stories written for my un_love_you claim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the albatross hangs

The first night after he pulls her from the burning apartment, they fuck. There’s nothing but pain in the way he looks at her, but Jess doesn’t care. Sam is gone, dead, burned alive before her eyes, and somehow she escaped in the arms of his brother, and it’s not right, it’s not fair, that Sam spent his last days with him and not her.

They get drunk first, and who can blame them. The only thing that linked them together is gone, just gone, and all they have is themselves and each other.

There’s something fundamentally wrong about all of this, Jess is sure, but she’s too drunk and scared and hurt to care. She saw Sam burn, and she thought she would die there, too, burn alive below him. Nothing would be more right than that. Nothing would be more wrong. He was young, too young to die, but there he was, nailed to the ceiling after she got out of the shower. And she would have died there with him, if it weren’t for his brother.

If it weren’t for his brother, she’d be dead with Sam above her instead of here, alive (if it can be called living) with Dean inside her, and that’s one kind of fucked up that she doesn’t even want to contemplate.

So she shuts her eyes tight and pulls Dean deeper into herself, lets him drive into her, and it’s like they’re the only two people in this world that’s coming apart at the seams.

And maybe they are.


	2. leaving me here on my own

"It should have been you," Dean says to the dark above their heads.

"What?"

"On the ceiling. It should have been you. Not him. Not Sam."

The words burn into her mind, choking her like thick smoke because she knows they're true. It should have been her.

"Our mother died like that. Burned alive on the ceiling above Sam's crib. He ever tell you that?"

Jess shakes her head. He hardly ever spoke about his family – only told her things when she cajoled him for days. She never knew why he didn't talk about them; now she thinks she's starting to understand.

"Yeah, of course he didn't." He glares at her in the light from the street lamp filtering through the blinds. It's frightening, the way his eyes narrow, and she shifts uncomfortably. "But you see," he whispers, "Dad had this theory. He thought it was something about Sam that the creature wanted, and Mom got in the way." He lets out a barking, bitter laugh. "Obviously he was wrong. Or the thing screwed up. I think it was supposed to be you on that ceiling, not him."

Jess thinks to herself that maybe he's wrong. Maybe the thing was after him, not Sam, and it wants him harsh, cold. The thought worries her; who's to say that he won't turn against her, murder her or worse? She tries to hide the shudder that goes through her at the thought, and if Dean notices, he doesn't say anything.

But then she remembers. He had nightmares. She remembers how Sam woke her up for weeks with his shouts, yelling for her. It always took several minutes to calm him down enough to reassure him that she was right there beside him.

She shudders again and wonders what it all means, why Sam's dead and why she – and Dean – is not. But mostly, Dean's words repeat, imprinted in her mind. _It should have been you._


	3. my bitter pill to swallow

It’s been weeks since Sam died, and they’ve already crisscrossed the country a thousand times over, but every time Dean looks to where she sits shotgun, Jess knows he only sees what isn’t there. She mostly lets it go, but she also resents him for it, for keeping her with him when it’s obvious this isn’t what he wants. She feels sorry for him, too, though not enough to try to make it better.

And finally, one night, she gets sick of it, of the way he doesn’t see her. "Sam’s gone and he’s not coming back," she tells him and moments later, he has her against the wall of the motel room, his body pressed against hers, leaving her winded.

"Don’t _say_ that," he growls, inches from her face, so close their noses almost brush. "Don’t fucking _say_ that."

Jess stands her ground, tries to stare him down even as he holds a harsh hand against her throat. She’ll have bruises later, but she doesn’t care; this has to be said. "You know it’s true. He’s _dead_ , Dean, and no amount of wishing will change that."

He presses tighter against her neck for half a second, his eyes darkening in anger. And then he blinks and his eyes clear and he lets her go. Jess rubs at her throat as he turns away from her.

"You live all your life watching out for someone and you can’t even pull them from a fire." He lets out a painfully bitter laugh, and his next words sound like they’re being ripped from him. "I failed."

She considers apologizing, but for what? For surviving? For being in the shower when that _thing_ got Sam? She can’t apologize for living. And she’s sorry that Sam is gone, but that’s not going to change anything. And maybe she does feel sorry for him, for having Sam for just a few days after not seeing him in years only to lose him completely. But at least he got to say goodbye. She didn’t even get that chance.

She wants to hate him for that, but she only feels more sorry.


	4. all i'd ever need

Jess wakes up with a hand (not Sam’s, not her own) inside her panties, callused fingers not doing anything but resting against her. Dean’s tucked into her side, his face buried into her neck and she’s afraid to move because she can’t tell if he’s awake, if he’s aware that his hand has found its way to her cunt, if this is intentional.

His fingers twitch against her, making her gasp involuntarily. She can feel him smirk just before his fingers delve deeper into her panties, and there’s no question whether he’s awake or not. She tries to lie still, tries not to feel anything, tells herself this is _bad/dirty/wrong_ , but when his thumb brushes against her clit, she gives up the ghost and arches into his touch, grinds against his blunt fingers.

She can feel his erection against her thigh as his fingers pump into her, and then his thumb is rubbing against her clit again and that’s it. It’s embarrassingly quick, and she lies spent and sweaty with his hand slipping out of her panties.

She moves her own hand to his cock, feeling obligated to return the favor, but he grasps her wrist with a sticky hand and sets it across her stomach. He rises and goes into the bathroom and moments later she hears the water running.

She falls asleep before he comes out, her own wet slick between her thighs.


	5. one more drink oughta ease the pain

Jess turns twenty-two on January 24, 2006. Dean takes her to a bar and says, "It's my birthday. Let's get smashed."

She'd all but forgotten that first year when she and Sam were together and he got drunk on her birthday, muttering about his stupid asshole brother and his stupid asshole birthday. Remembering it now doesn't make the hollow in her heart where Sam should be any less painful.

But she and Dean order round after round of shots – so many, Jess can't count the glasses on the table (though that may be because the room is spinning). They stay there until the bar closes, then help each other stumble to the car.

Jess wakes to hot sunlight on her face and a sharp elbow wedged into her stomach. It takes her a moment to untwist from Dean's arms, takes even longer to sort out how to get out of the back seat without making the pounding in her head even worse.

"You vomit in my car, I'll kill you," Dean's muffled voice says against the leather of the car.

Jess opens the door and lets the morning breeze ease her headache. She hasn't felt this hungover since before she met Sam, when she was stupid and crazy and Sam was just her boyfriend's weird room mate. Dave hadn't lasted much longer after that last night of binge drinking, when Sam took her home and cleaned her up.

She shakes her head to rid herself of the memory, regretting the motion instantly. She takes a deep breath and whispers, "Happy birthday, Dean."

"Right back at you."


	6. draw your shades and your shutters

She leaves on a Friday. She leaves on a Friday because Sam left on a Friday and that’s poetic justice in her book. She leaves on a Friday because Dean is at the bar down the street and probably won’t be back until morning.

She leaves because she knows it will make him angry. She wants to make him angry. She wants him angry because she’s angry and he doesn’t care, probably hasn’t even noticed.

He disappears, leaving her behind at the motel while he goes to bars and picks up women. Jess hates being left behind, being treated like a child when she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He won’t let her go with him, and he expects her to stay where she is, to wait for him. She’s tired of this game, sick of this _adventure_ they’ve had, trying to find Sam’s dad while making sure to stop at every brothel and strip joint along the way.

So she leaves. She packs a bag with what little she has and walks out the door. She walks to the bus station and buys a ticket west, back to California, back to her family who loves her and misses her (but doesn’t understand her, not like Dean does, but she banishes that thought).

It takes her three days to get to San José. Three days of her cell phone vibrating in her pocket (she’s still not sure when he got hold of her number, even less sure why he keeps calling). Three days of wondering whether she’s making the right choice by leaving. Three long days of grinding gears and a crying baby and the snores of the man sitting behind her. After weeks of riding shotgun to a silent driver, the noise of the bus is a comfort to her.

When she gets off at the San José station, he’s waiting for her, her bag already at his side.

"You found me." There’s nothing else she can say really.

"Wasn’t hard," he answers. "Only so many places the bus system will take you. And I figured you’d come back here." He pauses, staring at her evenly, but she can see the vein in his temple throb and she knows she succeeded. She’s made him angry and will likely pay for it in his silence. "Is anyone coming for you?"

She shakes her head, defeated. "Only you."

"Good." He picks up her bag and starts walking.


	7. the burning passion of a thousand suns

Dean punishes her for leaving.

When they stop for the night, he turns on the television and flips through the channels until he finds the raunchiest show available without actually paying money. Jess rolls onto her side and tries to ignore whatever Dean is watching, as well as Dean himself, who has started to rustle under the sheets in a way that makes her distinctly uncomfortable.

When the moans on the television are matched with grunts from the other bed, she squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think about what he is undoubtedly doing. It only works marginally well, and she finds herself pressing her thighs together in a fruitless attempt to do _something_ (whether it’s becoming aroused or avoiding it, she isn’t sure). Finally, she hears a long, guttural moan and the TV is turned off as Dean gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom.

"You still awake?" he asks when he returns.

Jess isn’t sure what to say, so she doesn’t say anything.

This routine continues for several nights in a row before she comes up with a counter-attack. She requests a room with a king and tells Dean it was all they had. He grumbles, but they settle into their nightly ritual, Jess changing in the bathroom, Dean stripping down in the room, neither of them saying a word.

The television is already on when she comes out, Dean flipping through the channels until he settles on a skanky reality show with girls trying to prove to some D-list celebrity they’re the skankiest. Jess watches it (and Dean) with interest.

He doesn’t notice at first, too intent on the television to notice how avidly she observes him. When he finally realizes she’s not hiding under the blankets, his boxers are already tented, but he merely raises an eyebrow. "Like what you see?"

She shrugs and turns her attention to the TV, the show back from commercials. "Curious, is all," she says.

Dean shrugs too, as if to say she can enjoy the live show if she likes. Jess leans back with her legs splayed wantonly across the bed, her hand making lazy circles on her thigh. It doesn’t take long for him to notice when she slips her hand inside her panties.

"Like what you see?" she asks. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t really need to, with the way his eyes are hooded, pupils dark with desire, and damp showing against his shorts.

She reaches for him, strokes his erection through his boxers, grins a little when he bites back a groan, the skanks on TV forgotten. She rolls, slipping her hand out of her panties and into his boxers, running it (slick with her) along the tip of his cock. She keeps stroking him, trying to gauge what will and what won’t make him come.

His eyelids start to flutter when she presses her fingers against the base of his cock, and she immediately pulls away, taking her hand out of his boxers and wiping it on the bed spread.

She gets up and goes to the bathroom to wash her hands, and when she returns, Dean’s freed himself from his boxers, finishing himself off and glaring at her darkly.

"Fucking tease," he half-groans. She doesn’t have anything to say to that, but she glares back, angry at him and at herself for being turned on as she watches him. "Bitch," he grunts just before he comes.


	8. don't leave me here alone

Jess and Dean have been together for months, hunting, when Dean gets electrocuted. It's all Jess can do to drag Dean up the stairs of the dank basement.

The emergency response guy fusses at her for moving him, but Jess barely hears him as she stares at Dean's too-still body. The guy finally stops lecturing when he realizes she isn't listening. Instead, he starts asking her questions - about health insurance, emergency contacts, someone she can call to pick her up.

"I'm staying with him," she says.

The next morning, Jess takes a cab back to the old farmhouse to get the Impala. She drives it back to the hospital, where she gets Dean's effects, and goes to the motel. There, she pulls out the journal and starts dialing phone numbers. The first three don't answer, the next hangs up when they hear her voice, two more hang up when she says "Winchester." The seventh says, "I know a guy."

She's writing down Roy le Grange's address when the latch on the motel door is rattled and Dean stumbles inside.

She wants to yell at him for sneaking out of the hospital, but he's so pale, and she's so worried (though she would never admit it). Jess merely says, "I've found someone who can help you."

*

After everything with Roy and his wife, Dean becomes reclusive again. It's like November all over again, but without the anger. They lie silently beside each other at night until Jess finally speaks.

"I'm not sorry."

"You should be." But his voice sounds resigned, not bitter.

"I couldn't lose you, too," she whispers. "I would do anything not to." She rolls away. "Anything."


	9. swallowed by a wave

They end up on the Atlantic coast, chasing ghosts like always. Jess has stopped believing that they’ll find Sam’s dad; she’s not entirely sure that was ever really the plan, though she hasn't voiced that thought to Dean. Yet. For now, though, they’re on the coast, and even though the waves here are nothing compared to the ones in California, she intends to enjoy the ocean while she can.

She gets up early, sliding out of bed and into her clothes as quietly as possible.

"Where are you going?" Dean’s voice rises from the blankets on the bed.

"Out," she answers, unwilling to let him join her in her plans. She does make a small concession. "I’ll be back."

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, slipping out the door into the early morning sunshine. The beach is a block and a half away, and Jess only stops to buy a towel and a board before heading to the public access area.

She spends more time than she intends to riding the waves and soaking up the sun. She meets a group of surfers and beach bums her own age, and it’s when they invite her to lunch that she realizes she’s spent too much time away. "I have to go," she tells them. "I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch."

She comes back to the motel feeling sun-warm and loose, genuinely happy in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. The feeling dissipates the moment she walks into the room to find Dean waiting for her.

"Where have you been?"

"I went to the beach," she says, keeping her voice even. "I lost track of the time." She picks up dry clothes and moves into the bathroom. Dean follows. She glares at him in the mirror. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

She sets her jaw and strips down in front of him. Her shoulders are sunburned (her own fault), but she turns the shower on hot anyway. Dean watches, his eyes searing into her back, in some ways more painful than the red stripes from the sun. She steps into the shower, half-expecting him to follow, mildly surprised when he doesn't.

When she gets out, he's gone. Her back stings under the scratch of the motel towel, too raw to bother with a bra or, really, a shirt. She puts on a pair of panties and lies face-down on the motel bed, letting the rickety air conditioner blow stale air against her naked back.

She must drift off, because the next thing she knows, the door is opening with a gust of warm sea air, and Dean walks in armed with a frown (a constant presence) and a bag of _stuff_. Jess doesn't really care what he's doing until she feels the bed sag to one side under his weight. She glances up at him curiously, but he doesn't seem to notice, too intent on the bottle in his hands.

The squelch of the bottle is succeeded by the sharp tang of aloe and a handful of cold gel against her spine, and that brings a memory straight from California to the forefront of Jess's mind. Sam used to do this for her, when they'd spent too long out in the sun. The memory stings more than the sunburn, and she almost wants Dean to stop, except the aloe cools, gently soothing away the pain.

His hands are different from Sam's. She's known that since day one, of course, but it's at times like this that she really notices. The calluses on his fingertips are just rough enough to feel good, and she relaxes into the back and forth motion of his hands on her back. His blunt fingers dance their way across her muscles, a gentle caress against the pain.

"You shouldn't have gone out on your own," he says, breaking the contented silence suddenly. There's an edge of venom in his voice; Jess would almost call it jealousy, if there were any reason for him to be jealous.

She doesn't answer him; he digs his fingers into her burnt shoulders, making her hiss.

"Don't do it again."

She wants to spit that he doesn't own her, that she can do what she wants, but she knows that if she says it, he'll tell her to leave. She can't leave. Not yet. She wants to find Sam's killer, wants to destroy the bastard the way he – it – destroyed her. So she grits her teeth and lets Dean smooth the aloe into her skin.


	10. the same hot blood burning in our veins

Sam, Jess is almost ashamed to admit, is no longer the singular focus of her mission. After so many months of hunting, her anger has dampened, turned into a concentrated, ever-burning ember, waiting to be awakened when the moment is right.

For now, she's found a strange sense of accomplishment in the small hunts she and Dean have taken on. The high of a job well done doesn't dull, each time slamming full force like a tidal wave of adrenaline and endorphins. The feeling is practically orgasmic on its own and is only intensified by the fact that she knows Dean feels the same way.

She knows, of course, because after every job well done, he fucks her senseless, giving and taking until the adrenaline wears out. Jess doesn't mind; she has a fair amount of stamina. And Dean – well, Dean can go on for _days_ , it seems like, on foreplay alone. She doesn't completely understand it, but he loves going down on her, making her come with just his teeth and tongue.

When a hunt goes sour, though, when there are too many casualties or there are children involved, it's a different story. Then, it's desperate, painful sex, the kind that only takes and never gives back. It's push and pull, each of them trying to get lost in the other and never quite succeeding.

Jess wonders if he has always been like this, using a willing body to find release. From what Sam told her of him before, he has. Even more, she wonders if she has always been like this, a constant hum of adrenaline and need just waiting to be unleashed by the thrill of the hunt. She doesn't know, can't remember what she was like before the fire.

She supposes it doesn't really matter. This is what she is now, a fighter and a hunter, stripped down to her basest of instincts.

She's a little scared of how happy it makes her.


End file.
